A Study In Jam
by Mr. Dan Schrader
Summary: Sherlock and John get a big surprise while eating spaghetti together.


"It's fine. It's all fine."

But it wasn't fine. If it were fine, John Watson wouldn't be waking up sweating every night from such sultry dreams. John Watson would work in a trauma clinic and settle down to a nice marriage in a comfortable flat without eyeballs in the fridge. John Watson would be the honorably discharged army doctor who returned to the civilian world of relative peace.

He saw this all very clearly, as what _should_ have been, had he not wandered into the way of a sociopath. Now his dreams had shifted to frozen fingers, talking skulls, and gunfights with criminal masterminds. It wasn't that John disliked his new civilian life—indeed, it was in many respects far more thrilling than Afghanistan—it was more that John no longer felt the security of the routine. In the military, his life was regimented; since he had been drawn into the hurricane that was Sherlock, his life had been a maddening frenzy. Adrenaline highs and take-out food, crime scenes and cigarette hiding—a peculiar oscillation between domesticity and the strange hobby-job he found himself immersed in whenever a client appeared. He was a blogger who thought nothing exciting would ever happen to him until he met Sherlock Holmes, who had so quickly become his muse, his job, his life—

It was a rather ordinary August evening, slightly chilly outside but a warm tea kettle was brewing. Mrs. Hudson was flurrying around the kitchen, reminding her tenants that she was not their cook and saying something about their being out of jam and how her sister used to make her own homemade cherry jam with a tree in her backyard and oh, what a shame that we have lost the skill of preserving fruit and perhaps she'll send some next spring and _Sherlock_, how messy you've left the sugar—

"That's enough, Mrs. Hudson, we'll just go out to eat," Sherlock was saying, trying his best to gently calm the babbling woman. Since she had been held hostage by the C.I.A., Sherlock had been making an effort to tell her to shut up in a much nicer way.

"Right," John promptly agreed. "Can we bring you anything, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh no, boys, I'm going to dinner with Clara. It's bingo night tonight!" she smiled excitedly.

John didn't ask where they were going—sometimes he simply trailed after the Sherlock's coat, lost in his thoughts. He didn't think twice when he crossed the threshold of Sherlock's favorite Italian restaurant, or when Angelo insisted on slapping him and Sherlock on the back as some kind of friendly greeting. "I'll get a candle for the table. Makes it more romantic," Angelo was saying. John started to mutter, "We're still not dating," but Angelo had already disappeared and he concentrated his attention on the menu.

Sherlock was not looking at the menu.

"Sherlock, you've got to eat something. You haven't eaten in three days."

"Yes I have," he retorted, scrunching his eyebrows.

"Nicotine patches and tea don't count as nutrition," John scowled. Angelo had returned with a candle and a plate of bread.

"I'll have the spaghetti," John said. They both turned expectantly to Sherlock.

"I'll have some wine," Sherlock said with a smile.

Angelo quickly departed, leaving John to chastise Sherlock about his eating habits. Sherlock seemed frustrated and anxious until John's dinner arrived. Taking a gulp of wine, he reached a fork into John's plate and started curling spaghetti around it.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John hissed, slightly embarrassed. He shrugged, and caught between the awkwardness of sharing a plate of spaghetti at a candlelit table and his friend's lack of eating, John pushed the plate between them. "I'm sure we could get you an extra plate," John was saying as Sherlock helped himself to a meatball. "Sherlock…" pleaded a flustered John, who had ceased eating.

"Aw, how romantic!" Angelo had appeared again, with an accordion.

"Oh, no, Angelo—" John began. Sherlock was staring at him intensely. No, he was staring _through_ him. _Beyond_ him.

"John," Sherlock breathed. "John! _Get down!_" Sherlock's hand pushed the back of his head to the floor and they lay in a heap, listening to the ring of gunshots piercing the windows in front of them.

"_Mamma mia no!"_ Angelo was yelling as his terrified customers scrambled to the floor, taking cover under their tables.

"You can let go of my hair now, Sherlock," John grunted as Sherlock scanned the horizon. "What was that?" John lifted his head slightly to peer through the window, but was quickly pushed back down as a fresh barrage of shots whizzed over their heads.

And then the explosion.

John Watson had experienced explosions in Afghanistan, but never at so close a distance—he felt the force pushing him higher and his ears were ringing and he couldn't see and he felt cobblestone beneath his back—

He saw the flashing lights before he heard the siren, and people seemed to move sideways up the street, drunk and unsteady. He was vaguely aware of a hand pulling him up, and then, nothing.

"John," a man was saying. His head was swimming as it began to piece together the scene in front of him. "John." He had heard that word before, but the voice had been different. A confusing aroma of sugar and saffron lazily wafted towards his face, and he blinked, finding himself on a couch across from Mycroft. "John, I'm afraid you passed out after the explosion."

Mycroft was languidly attending to his fingernails. He paused when he saw that John was rubbing the back of his head and sitting up, staring at the tray of tea between them. He was in his own flat. The skull leered at him from the mantle, the union jack pillow rested on the sofa with him, the chairs sat in their normal place—

"Where is Sherlock?" John yawned, focusing on Mycroft and furrowing his eyebrows.

"Oh, relax John. My little brother is fast asleep in his bed." Mycroft frowned. "I will never understand why he chose _you_, of all people," he muttered, throwing John a condescending glance.

Dazed, John stopped rubbing his head and looked questioningly at Mycroft.

"Oh yes, Dr. Watson, I said _chose_. But then again, he was always a fickle boy… you know, as a child, he was always so alone. I think he was too proud to admit his loneliness—always bragged about his self-sufficiency and whatnot—and I'd almost come to believe he really thought that. I'm so glad to see that he has finally found someone to take care of him. I do worry about him being alone…"

"Mycroft," John stuttered. "I'm not—"

"Oh, I know you're not, John, but you _will_ take care of him," Mycroft smiled in his peculiar I-own-the-government way and stood up.

"Wait—the explosion—what happened?" John interjected.

"Oh, just a group of assassins trying to kill my little brother. I was going to warn you about them, but it seems you didn't get my text—keep your phone on and for heaven's sake, don't leave Sherlock alone. We need him, you know," he sniffed. "The government needs his services… we apprehended the criminals last night, but there will likely be more. Lestrade should be in touch. Cheerio!" he shouted as he waltzed out the door.

John stood in the living room a moment to process what Mycroft had said. He had come back from a war in Afghanistan to a more deadly London-town. _Don't leave Sherlock alone_. At any moment someone could light a bomb under their feet or gun them down on the way to the store.

They were still out of jam.

"Fantastic," John sighed. _Don't leave Sherlock alone_. He quietly pushed open Sherlock's door. Sherlock was asleep, sprawled out strangely under a heap of sheets that Mycroft had haphazardly tossed on top of him. John began closing the door. _Don't leave Sherlock alone_.

"Shit," he muttered, grabbing a book from Sherlock's bedside table. He sat down in one of Sherlock's chairs and started reading, but the messy sheets bothered him. He grudgingly fixed the blankets and tidied up Sherlock's room before sitting down to _The Merck Manual_. He got to the _G _section before Sherlock woke up.


End file.
